The Scent of Mulberries
In the market we bought strawberries,
carafes of wine and dark, ripe mulberries
then flung the double lilo in the pool
and lay there as the night began to cool.
Our final Corfu night. The local wine,
last poetry, last memories. More wine . . .
I spilled crushed strawberry kisses on your lips
and traced with gently eager fingertips
the warm sweet juice that dribbled off your chin
to trickle down your mulberry-scented skin. . .
But Tesco's fruit could never re-ignite
that love back home upon the Isle of Wight.
Though, ever since you left, once in a while
the scent of mulberries still makes me smile.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Martin Parker
would be pleased to hear